


Promises

by nothingisreal



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drug Use, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-02
Updated: 2016-01-02
Packaged: 2018-05-11 04:00:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5613199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothingisreal/pseuds/nothingisreal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"We have an agreement, my brother and I, ever since that day. Wherever I find him - whatever back alley or doss house, there will always be a list."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Promises

**Author's Note:**

> English isn't my first language. No beta.

Seeing Sherlock on that plane, barely able to distinguish between reality and fantasy, Mycroft couldn’t help but blame himself yet again. He always felt that it was all his fault. He failed to notice the first warning signs, back when they were still kids.

_“Thanks, Harry,” Mycroft said, taking his luggage from the boot. “I’ll repay the favour at the first opportunity.”_

_He wasn’t supposed to be home until the next day – the first train was leaving in the morning – but Harry offered to give him a lift, as he was going in the same direction. Which meant that Mycroft arrived home some twenty hours earlier than expected._

_He was surprised to find the lights in the house were out and all the blinds shut. His parents might be away, but Sherlock didn’t go with them, after all he had school to attend to. And Mycroft knew for sure that at this hour, it was too late for his 15-year-old brother to be out and too early to be in bed._

_He unlocked the front door and set his luggage down._

_“Sherlock?”_

_No reply._

_Without bothering to take his coat off or even turn the lights on, Mycroft looked into the living room, just to confirm that it was empty, before making his way upstairs, towards his brother’s room._

_The closed door was what set off the first red light in Mycroft’s head. Sherlock never closed his bedroom door. Not unless their mother specifically told him to._

_Mycroft wondered briefly if he should knock, but quickly decided against it. He pushed the door open, chest tight with dread. The sight that greeted him was something he’d never expected before. He should have though. And that thought made it even worse._

_His little brother was lying on the bed, his shirt sleeves rolled up, a fairly fresh red spot on his forearm. The syringe was lying on the floor next to the bed. Mycroft’s breath caught in his throat._

_“Sherlock,” he gasped, grasping at the wall for support. Seeing his little brother like this and realising that he could have probably stopped it before it ever began… The guilt would haunt him forever._

_“Go away,” came the answer from the bed. “I’m fine.”_

_“Sherlock,” Mycroft repeated, rushing to the side the bed, where he fell to his knees. Sherlock was turned away from him, facing the wall. “Sherlock, look at me.”_

_At first there was no response, but eventually Sherlock sat up on the bed, still avoiding eye contact._

_Mycroft shrugged off his coat and scarf and picked up the syringe. He sat on the bed, so that Sherlock would have no choice but to face him. “What have you taken?” He demanded, waving the syringe in front of Sherlock’s eyes. “Heroin?”_

_Sherlock glanced at him, shame making him unable to hold eye contact for long. “That too,” he mumbled, determinedly staring at his lap._

_“What do you mean ‘too’? Sherlock, what have you taken?” Mycroft demanded, feeling anger well up inside him. He barely managed to supress the urge to grab Sherlock’s shoulders and shake him._

_Sherlock bit his lip and didn’t say anything._

_“Alright, have it your way then.”_

_Sherlock glanced up with a questioning frown on his face._

_“You don’t want to tell me, you can tell the doctor.”_

_“What doctor?” Sherlock asked quickly, his eyes widening in panic._

_“The one I’m going to call,” Mycroft replied, getting up and collecting his coat from the floor._

_Before he could go anywhere though, there was a hand grasping his sleeve._

_“Please, don’t,” Sherlock practically begged him. “I’ll tell you everything.”_

_Mycroft took the opportunity. He grasped Sherlock’s wrist on the pretence of trying to get him to let go. Sherlock’s pulse didn’t seem weaker than it should be, but it was slightly too irregular for Mycroft’s liking._

_“I want a list,” he demanded, allowing Sherlock’s hand to fall into his lap. “What and how much. Is that clear?”_

_Sherlock only nodded in agreement._

_“I’ll bring you some water,” Mycroft declared with a sigh._

_He was about to leave, when Sherlock called his name shakily. “You’ll tell our parents, won’t you?”_

_Mycroft closed his eyes, his fingers curling into fists. “You should try and get some sleep,” he said, leaving Sherlock alone with his thoughts._

_Before going to the kitchen, Mycroft quickly visited his own room. He threw the syringe into the waste bin by his desk. Later he would have to make sure there weren’t any more hidden somewhere in Sherlock’s bedroom. He would get rid of every single syringe and all the drugs he could find. And he’d make damn sure he found everything there was._

_When he returned with a glass of water, there was a piece of paper on the bedside table. Mycroft handed Sherlock the water and glanced at the list._

_“That’s all?” He asked just to be certain._

_“Yes,” Sherlock answered, bringing his knees up to his chest. “I’m sorry,” he offered and for once Mycroft wasn’t quite sure how much he actually meant it._

_“Why did you do it?”_

_Sherlock shrugged wordlessly. “I was bored,” he admitted eventually._

_“Bored?” Mycroft exclaimed in astonishment. “Sherlock, boredom is hardly an excuse for doing this.”_

_“Well, what is a good excuse then?” Sherlock bit back, looking at Mycroft angrily._

_“There isn’t one. Now drink up and go to sleep,” he said, his tone softening. “I’ll check in on you in an hour.”_

_“I can take care of myself,” Sherlock protested._

_“I can see that,” Mycroft bit back, noticing the flash of hurt in Sherlock’s eyes. “Goodnight.”_

As far as Mycroft knew and if the withdrawal symptoms were anything to go by, Sherlock did stop doing drugs. For the whole of two years.

Mycroft wasn’t sure what triggered the relapse, but suddenly Sherlock started disappearing, coming home at the strangest hours. Their parents didn’t worry much, but then they didn’t know what Mycroft knew. He never told them, vowing to himself that he would be the one to take care of his little brother.

He would find Sherlock in back alleys and dosshouses, but there would always be a list. It wasn’t much, but it reassured Mycroft. Because Sherlock never broke his promise.

Even after Doctor John Watson appeared in the picture. At first Mycroft was reluctant and suspicious. The truth was, he was afraid. He could see Sherlock drifting away from him. They had never been close, but there was a certain amount of trust and love between them. And now Mycroft realised Sherlock might be snatched away from him. As long as Mycroft felt he had some control over his little brother, he was confident nothing would happen to him. Because Mycroft wouldn’t allow it. He loved Sherlock too much. And keeping him reasonably safe helped Mycroft deal with his own guilt.

But Sherlock managed to fool them all once again. He’d been high the whole time and nobody noticed. Mycroft should have foreseen it. He should have known the impact that all that happened would have on his brother.

“Promise me?”

The fact that Sherlock refused to worried him. It might have been because of Mary and John, but Mycroft doubted that. He only hoped that this time he wouldn’t miss the signs. Sherlock wasn’t stupid, but his recklessness and proneness to boredom was troublesome at its mildest.

So Mycroft would have to be on the lookout at all times. This time, he’d be there to stop Sherlock before he could manage to destroy himself and those closest to him. Because, whether Sherlock liked it or not, Mycroft knew him. And he knew the real danger didn't come from Sherlock’s enemies.

If there was one person Sherlock needed saving from, it was himself.

 


End file.
